On the Sixth Day
by Edhla
Summary: Besides his brother, Mycroft Holmes cares for only one man - Stephen Hassell, his personal assistant. And according to Stephen's kidnapper, he has six days to live.
1. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

"You're sure that this isn't indiscreet?" Stephen Hassell smiled from where he was sitting on the bed.

"Oh yes, I'm sure it's _very_ indiscreet." Mycroft smiled back, getting up. "I wouldn't worry about that for now. The British Government might own me for three hundred and sixty four days a year, but my Christmases have always been my own."

Mycroft's experience of English country houses amounted to one: Linwood. He had never before spent a blustery winter's night in smaller and cosier quarters, where a single log fire warmed every nook and cranny of the 17th century stone house, including a nude sleeper among crisp linen on the bed. A place where a person who snored in one bedroom could be clearly heard in another; where a simple meal cooking in the kitchen drifted a delicious aroma of orange and cloves to every room on the ground floor, and pine needles from the Christmas tree found their way into every crack and gap in the flagstones underfoot.

Yes, he reflected contentedly to himself, though he would never have voiced it aloud. Yes, Stephen had been right to insist they spend that Christmas at his own country home, rather than in the cold comfort of Linwood.

"I'm glad you came out here with me, Mycroft," Stephen said suddenly. "You're different when it's like this."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose I am," he said stiffly. "But you can hardly expect me to be anything other than discreet at work, Stephen. As I said, my holidays are my own."

"No, they're not." Stephen smiled.

"Indeed?"

"No. I'm pretty sure that they're _mine_."

Stephen's tongue, too, held the tang of oranges and cloves. There were undertones of salt that were stronger on his chest and hands, and his breath was hot and sweet on Mycroft's face. Giving in, Mycroft sought him urgently; he could feel Stephen's calves brushing up against his own in a rough male kiss, so that he was no longer sure where Stephen ended and he began.

"Mycroft." Stephen's voice was low and near. "I - "

"No." Mycroft abruptly drew away, extricating himself from their tangle of arms and legs; he did not seem offended, however. He took several deep breaths in silence. "No. You know I… don't say such things," he explained awkwardly.

"Well, what if I say them, and you don't have to?"

"No. Even worse. Let's not ruin this one day of the year by our disagreeing over a word." Mycroft got up in a businesslike way; the moment was over, for now. He threw on a pyjama top; the evening was chill. "I'll go for more wine," he offered.

"That's kind of you."

"No, it's self-preservation. That last bottle you brought up was ungodly."

Stephen laughed as Mycroft made his way out along the passage to the main living area, climbing down the dusty, precarious stairs into the wine cellar. The cellar was lit only by a weak, dusty globe; already a little light-headed from the last bottle of ungodly wine, he stumbled a little on the last three steps before reaching the dim cool of the cellar itself.

_Hiding. _

_For God's sake, you are not a blushing debutante. How utterly ridiculous you are sometimes, Mycroft Holmes._

No oranges and cloves here. He could smell nothing but dank earth and secret growth in the dark. He searched quickly along the wine rack; the cellar was frigid, with little icy draughts nipping at his ankles. Selecting a bottle, he drew it out carefully and rubbed at the label with the heel of his hand.

Chtau Margaux. 1995 Vintage.

Well, he shrugged, you only lived once, and wine was meant to be drunk. Happy with his selection, he turned back to the stairs, folding the bottle in the crook of his arm and drawing it close to his body to protect it.

His last coherent memory was twofold; seeing his own foot on the dusty step below, and hearing the crash of breaking glass in the house above.

* * *

"Well, I'm calling that a success." John finished wiping clean the kitchen countertop and dropped the cleaning cloth into the bin beside the sink. 'That' was the fact that he and Molly had managed to entertain Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Melissa, Hayley and Harry all afternoon without undue incident. "One Christmas, done and dusted. All present or accounted for, healthy and well, and nobody's in disgrace – though I'm going to have to make it a bit clearer next year that all toys bought for a certain young lady need to be of the _silent_ kind. Seriously, Harry, _off_. It's driving me mad."

He poured a glass of white wine and went back into the living room with it, handing it to Mrs. Hudson. He'd not yet told Harry this, but he was absurdly proud that every other adult in the house had had at least one drink that afternoon, and she'd managed to stay strong. He and Molly had planned yet another "dry" Christmas; Harry had insisted on trying her willpower. Three months of therapy at the Harley Street Clinic had done her good. She looked up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a stuffed polar bear in her hands.

"John, don't be so miserable," she objected. "For God's sake, it's a polar bear that sings "I'd Like to Teach The World to Sing" in the voice of Jimmy Durante. I could play this all day."

"You _have _played it all day," he reminded her. "Give it a rest, before the batteries mysteriously go missing."

"Good technique, that one," Lestrade remarked. He was also sitting on the floor. Mycroft may have chosen not to be at the Watson household for the festivities that year, but he hadn't forgotten to send in Charlie's first Christmas gift. This was a full wooden Victorian train set, painted in exquisite detail in bright primary colours. Lestrade had immediately set to work assembling it and wouldn't let anybody else play with it.

"Having fun with that?" John asked him. He sat back down on the sofa beside Molly, who was snuggled up in one of his jumpers and already dozing; she lay her head on his shoulder.

"I'd be having a lot more fun with this if I could get it to work," he muttered.

"Well, Dad, you're trying to attach that carriage the wrong way," Hayley objected.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." Sherlock was standing on the other side of the room near the window, a glass of sherry in his hands. "Turn the clip over."

"Nope, other way," John remarked as Lestrade obligingly twisted the clip over. "Left to right."

"Why is it that everything with a penis thinks he's an expert when it comes to trains?" Harry wanted to know of nobody in particular.

"Harry!"

"What?"

John shook his head woefully. "Jesus," he groaned. "We _nearly_ got through one day without that, didn't we?"

"She's got a point though, John," Melissa said. "I mean, if Greg just stopped being so stubborn and let me and Hayley help him half an hour ago when we offered, we'd have a fully functioning train set for you boys to lie on the floor and play with by now."

"Besides." Hayley, newly eighteen and proud of the privileges that came with her birthday, sipped her own glass of wine. "I just offered Dad _my_ opinion, and I'm pretty sure I don't have a -"

"Okay, stop," Lestrade broke in.

Before this could degenerate into a squabble and marr the day, Sherlock's phone rang. He absent-mindedly put his glass of sherry precariously on the windowsill and fished it out of his pocket, looking at the incoming caller ID for a second.

"Excuse me," he said, making his way to the hall doorway.

"What's up, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mycroft," he said briefly. "Give me a moment."

"So. How has work been, Molly?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock wandered off into the hall.

"Oh, tiring." She smiled. "But good. The details are boring, but I've been looking at some really interesting things with viral pneumonia."

"But you've got time off over Christmas, surely?"

"Oh yes, ten days. And they'll all be worth it." Molly smiled at Charlie, who was just then being dandled from Hayley's knee- something Lestrade hadn't been all that excited to behold. "It'll be lovely," she went on contentedly. "We were going to go away for a week to the Lakes District, but it's been so cold, we may as well stay here."

"Charlie won't remember it, anyway," Mrs Hudson smiled. "Oh, she does look dear in that little dress! How old is she now?"

"Five months and three days. I can't believe we've – "

Molly cut herself off as Sherlock's voice, sharp and anxious, floated in from the hall.

"Mycroft… calm down. No. No, you are of absolutely no use if you're going to be incoherent. Give me the address."

John and Lestrade looked at each other. Lestrade got up from the floor, and John removed his arm from where it had been wrapped around Molly's shoulders.

"The _address_, Mycroft. Now. No... just the address."

John rose and went softly out to the hall doorway, where he found Sherlock pacing around with his phone at his ear. Their eyes met for a few seconds as he listened down the line.

"Mycroft," he said again. "Are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?"

Pause.

"Yes, you've told me that. Do _you _need an ambulance?" He reached out to get his coat off the coat stand; Lestrade gently brushed past John to do the same. Behind John, the entire living room had fallen silent, expectant.

"Listen," Sherlock said firmly. "We're on our way. Don't panic and don't move unless you need to. Don't contaminate the crime scene any more than you have to."

"Crime scene?" John demanded as Sherlock unceremoniously hung up the phone.

"He's been attacked," Sherlock said briefly, putting his scarf on. "I don't know how badly… he's in distress and not making sense, though I've thankfully got an idea of where he is. Lestrade, I think we're looking at an abduction."

"An abduction?"

"He doesn't know where Stephen is."

"Shit. Gimme the address," Lestrade muttered. "I'll get a unit out there-"

"Not your jurisdiction," Sherlock told him. "And we need to assess what's happened before we bring a team of police officers in to make a disaster of the evidence on hand. Come with us if you can, John. He may need a doctor."

* * *

**_A/N_**_- This is the sixth in a series that is outline in my profile and begins with After the Fall, if you want to know how we got to here. As you can see, it's a stronger T than I've ever written before and may well be changed to an M. Since the ratings system here is so highly subjective, I absolutely encourage any of you to PM or review me if you see something you personally think violates the T rating. I'll notify if the rating is changed in an A/N for anyone following who may want to unfollow or be wary from that point. As a guideline, it won't be sexually explicit, but there will be occasional coarse language. and it may contain stronger violence than those of you following may be used to reading from me._


	2. When We Want You

"Mycroft, what's your birthday…? And Sherlock's…? What about mine…?"

Sherlock, curled up in the passenger seat beside Lestrade, listened carefully to John's side of the conversation, trying to gauge the quality of his brother's responses by John's tone of voice and the space between his questions. John had acquiesced to Sherlock's insistence that they wait until their own arrival before calling in the local force or an ambulance, but then he'd kept Mycroft on the phone from the time they'd backed out of the drive until now. He'd paused only to switch to Lestrade's phone when the battery of his own bled out.

"Okay. Could you spell your name backwards, please? Take your time… Greg, how close are we?"

Lestrade, who had been taking his instructions from Sherlock, looked across at him in mute questioning.

"Five minutes," Sherlock said briefly.

"We'll be five minutes, Mycroft. Now… okay, well done… no I'm _not _patronising you, just answer my questions, will you? You get one wrong and I'm dialling 999-"

"Stop the car!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, making a grab for the wheel. Lestrade, used to Sherlock's complete and utter disregard for safety when he was thinking intensely, braked violently; even seatbelted, John pitched into the back of Sherlock's seat.

"What the hell-?"

"Keep the headlights on." Sherlock threw his door open and hurried out to the frosty road; both John and Lestrade watched him looking carefully at something on the road between his feet. Without a word, he came back to the car and opened the door again, pulling out a high-end Nikon DSLR camera that had been sitting in the console near his feet and taking it back to where he'd been standing. The flash fired nine times.

"What's he doing?" John muttered, cupping the receiver end of his phone.

"Dunno."

Lestrade hadn't time to say any more before Sherlock was back again; he shut the door hard and reached for his seatbelt.

"What was that?" Lestrade asked him.

"Could be anything," was the short response. "Might be nothing. Minor skid marks from where a Toyota van briefly lost traction on the road… recently. In the last two hours or so, I imagine. I think it was a 1997 Hiachi, but I'll need to examine the marks against samples to make sure." He paused. "It was going in the opposite direction to us."

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by John picking up his string of questioning on Mycroft.

"Sherlock," Lestrade finally muttered. "You know damn well that this couldn't be more different to the usual kidnapping police procedure. You know time is important and that most kidnap victims-"

"Most who are murdered are murdered quickly," Sherlock finished for him. "Within the first few hours. I know. And you also know that most of such victims are children who are kidnapped by warring parents or by twisted perverts who aren't interested in anything other than causing pain. Very few grown men are ever kidnapped and when they are, they're usually held for ransom."

"Sherlock-"

"Did I find the Bruhl children, Lestrade?"

"… Yes."

"Did I find them promptly?"

"Six hours."

"Did I find them alive?"

"Yes."

"Then do me a favour and _trust me."_

~~oo~~oo~~oo~~oo~~

Lestrade pulled the car up to the modest thatched farmhouse, as promised, six minutes later. As the headlights bounced over the front of the property, all three in the car immediately noticed that the heavy double front door was hanging open on both sides. Amber light was spilling out onto the pavement and neatly manicured front lawn, as if this were any other Christmas night; but that open front door was as telling as an open wound, and no less alarming. But Sherlock barked for John and Lestrade to stay where they were while he took twenty-two photographs of the drive; and when they finally reached the doorway, he was just in time to grab John by the arm.

"What?" John demanded, impatiently hoisting his medical case in his free arm.

"Crime scene," Sherlock hissed. "Don't touch anything. Mind the floor." He softly stepped inside, taking his own advice. "Mycroft?" he called hesitantly into the hall.

All three of them now heard a kind of coughing noise emanating from a doorway that opened onto the right hand side of the corridor. Coughing, and the reek of blood; Lestrade touched Sherlock's arm and mutely pointed to the clots that had dribbled onto the flagstones they were standing among. Swiftly but carefully, Sherlock negotiated the evidence without walking through it, and arrived in the doorway first.

"Mycroft -"

This time it was Lestrade who grabbed John's arm to prevent him from barrelling in over the only evidence they had to go on.

Mycroft was curled up in an armchair by the window; or what had once been a window and was now little more than a gaping hole in the side of the living room, giving the place something of the impression of a bloodstained smile with a front tooth knocked out. Frigid darkness flooded in through the gap. Sugary fragments of glass littered the carpet, glistening among a broken chair, an overturned coffee table and ominous dark puddles of various sizes. They showed their true, horrible colour on the curtains, the sofa, and Mycroft's blue striped pyjamas.

"Don't move," Sherlock barked at John and Lestrade. "I need to photograph this in its original state."

"Photograph- Sherlock, what the hell?" John had so far not taken his eyes off the bloodstained man shivering in the armchair. But Mycroft was looking back at them quite impassively – perhaps too impassively.

"Do as he says," he told John hollowly. "It's important. I'm not hurt."

"Jesus, how much blood is that?" Lestrade muttered, receiving no reply as Sherlock fired the camera off, this time no less than forty times. Mycroft waited calmly; finally Sherlock nodded and John crossed the room to where Mycroft was still sitting, one leg crossed over the other.

"You're not injured?" he demanded, taking one of his hands and drawing it toward him to take his pulse. Mycroft winced and clenched his jaw.

"No," he said. "Stephen is… I… I'm afraid I don't remember where Stephen is… I was getting wine..."

"Never mind about that now," John told him, getting down on his haunches beside him and hearing Sherlock huff with indignation at his shoulder. "Are you bleeding…? You are..."

"I'm not…" Mycroft protested, but John had drawn both his hands out over his knees and was looking them over in horror. He glanced up at Sherlock; he had cocked his head to the side to read the words carved in fine-tipped savagery along each of Mycroft's fingers.

_when_

_we_

_want_

_you_

_we_

_will_

_take_

_you_

"Call the local force, Lestrade," was all Sherlock said.

~~oo~~oo~~oo~~oo~~

"You're warm enough?" John asked Mycroft as he settled him into the back of the car with a blanket over his knees. He turned the key Lestrade had given him in the ignition to crank up the car's heater. Mycroft gave him little more than a vague grunt in response; he was passive and compliant, like a child who was sleepwalking.

"What day is it, Mycroft?" John asked him, taking his pulse and again noting those horrible words carved onto his frost-nipped fingers. He made a mental note: the first thing the paramedics had to do was get the man warm. Sherlock may or may not have been right in insisting nobody else touch the crime scene before he arrived, but the fact of the matter was that Mycroft had sat freezing next to an open window for at least forty-five minutes.

"Wednesday," he responded, teeth chattering slightly. "Christmas Day. December twenty-fifth. John, tell Sherlock Stephen is missing…"

John frowned. Mycroft had passed most of his verbal tests for concussion with flying colours – knew everyone's birthday, could spell his name backwards, knew who the Prime Minister was and even who'd won the last World Cup. But since John had bundled him out to the car awaiting the arrival of the police and an ambulance, he'd asked him four times to tell Sherlock that Stephen was missing.

_Emotional shock? His pulse is way up, but that's normal under the circumstances. He smells a little boozy, but I don't think he's drunk._

"I'll tell him, Mycroft," he promised, as he had all four times. He pulled the keyless entry tab off of the key-ring in the ignition. "I'm going to lock you in, if that's okay? You can still unlock the doors from the inside if you have to, but I want you to stay here. Sherlock's working on it, and the police are on their way. Understood?"

"John, I'm not _stupid."_

"No, but you're not in a good way, are you? Stay there." He shut and locked the car door behind Mycroft and hurried back to the house, finding Sherlock and Lestrade picking over the gore-spattered mess in the living room. Now that Mycroft was out of the context of the scene, John could really see just how much blood had flooded the floor, walls, curtains…

"How is he?" Sherlock muttered distractedly. He was still clutching his camera and sifting through the mess; the glass shards clinked at his feet as he gently kicked at them.

"I think he's all right," John said. "Bruised and battered, but I don't think anything's broken… the paramedics will be able to check him over better when they come. He'll need someone to keep a close eye on him for forty-eight hours at least. Concussion can be delayed, and he's had a nasty shock as well as a head injury."

Sherlock nodded vaguely; he was still looking around the room. "Looks like both of them put up a fight," he muttered.

"But this is all Stephen's blood?"

"So it appears." Sherlock put his palms together and brought them to his lips; it had always struck John as an attitude of prayer. "John," he asked in low tones, "do you think a person could lose this much blood and still be alive?"

John looked around. "How tall is Stephen?" he asked.

"My height," Sherlock said without a pause. "Give or take an inch or so." At the far end of the room, Lestrade had wandered into the corridor to check out any possible disturbances in the other rooms.

"And he's heavier set than you?"

"By about six kilograms."

"Been drinking?"

"Yes. At least three standard drinks and probably no more than five, if Mycroft's state is anything to go by."

John looked at the raw globs congealing on the flagstones and the spatters and smears all over the sofa and curtains. It had been a long time since he'd been called on to make a visual estimate of blood loss.

"John?" Sherlock urged him.

"Yeah, I'm _thinking!" _John snapped. Then he covered his mouth for a second and took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said. "Um. Look, no arterial sprays that I can see. That's… a good sign. And blood always looks like there's more of it than there is… I don't know, Sherlock. Looks like almost two pints to me. If he's alive, he's probably going to go into shock pretty quickly."

"Sherlock," Lestrade called across from where he was standing in the hall doorway, making an effort not to touch the door frame. "I think you'd better come here and have a look at this..."

His tones were so urgent that Sherlock immediately crossed the floor to him. "What is it?" he demanded.

Lestrade gestured into the bedroom; Sherlock's gaze immediately darted in on what the significant evidence was. It was lying in a soft, unobtrusive heap at the foot of the bed.

"You need to go out and have a bit of a chat with your brother," Lestrade muttered. "Or get John to, if he'd be more likely to talk with him. 'Cause if those are Stephen's clothes, I want to know what the hell he was wearing when he was taken..."

They looked at each other for a second or two. Outside, fine flakes of snow were drifting onto the bare, bleak graves of last summer's flowers.


	3. First Call

Mycroft was dreaming of drooping catkins and purring turtle doves. Of smoky summer afternoons, of warm scented grass and tart strawberries and the gentle, lapping sound of the River Cherwell as it passed by the delights of Parson's Pleasure.

He was dreaming of Oliver Vincent.

Baron Compton, Seventh Viscount of Willerton; brilliant and beautiful, lying on a tartan blanket draped over the crisp, pale grass. They had been like two Adams that afternoon in 1986; redolent and splendid there by the river, with dominion over all in the sky and on the earth and under the sea. Only the turtle doves and the roaming, scented breeze bore witness to the wine and the wisdom that passed between them.

Oliver had been swimming; the water, he said, had been more chill than he'd expected, and he had stretched himself out, still naked, on the blanket to warm up and dry off. He spoke that afternoon more than Mycroft did; he spoke of poetry and music and wine, and of the glorious possibility of the communion of mankind with nature. He spoke of the ways that man could become a god.

"It's all about beauty," he said. He shaded his eyes with his hand, gazing over to where Mycroft was stretched out, resting on his elbows. "Mycroft, the beautiful is _divine_. The ugly is profane. For a man to achieve divinity, he must surround himself with the divine. The beautiful. He must flee from ugliness, the way that men should flee from evil. They're one and the same."

"Does he not have the responsibility," Mycroft had asked, "to cure the ugly and _make_ it beautiful?"

Oliver put a strawberry in his mouth."Good luck with that," he said. "Some things are beyond salvation. Let other men bother themselves with them. I never will."

In the moment of breathless silence that followed, Mycroft had reached out and gently laid his palm on the chill, smooth curve of Oliver's back.

The spell broke.

"What are you doing...?_" _Oliver's blue eyes had sharpened precipitously; every muscle in his body suddenly tensed.

Mycroft withdrew his hand, white-lipped with shame and confusion. "Oliver…" he stammered. "I…"

"_Jesus, _Myc!" Oliver's white skin gleamed in the overhead sun dapples as he leapt up and struggled into his trousers.

From that day, Mycroft Holmes - brilliant, wealthy Mycroft Holmes - had been covered with shame and trailed by rumour. _Make sure you don't let Myc Holmes in the regatta dressing room while you've got your trousers off. He's an arse bandit. Filthy bugger. Tried it on with Vincent down at the Parson's Pleasure._

Mycroft never went down to the river again.

And not being able to claim himself interested in women, he carefully smothered to death all rogue romantic urges. By the time he had graduated with honours, he had almost forgotten that he ever had any; all that remained was the raw animal drive for sex, and that had easily been satisfied with purchased encounters that became more safe and pleasurable as his social status increased over the coming years.

And then he had employed a man named Stephen Hassell.

His mind had roamed on to sunwashed linen and strong port when he was roused by a short, gentle shake.

"Mycroft…"

He opened his eyes, trying to focus on the man in front of him: John. In dawning consciousness, Mycroft found himself lying in the back seat of car; it was dark. The air inside the car was dry and hot, like the winds of a desert, but John was standing by the open door and the blast of frozen night air from behind him was like a slap to the face.

"What?" he slurred, shutting his eyes again.

"Ambulance is here, Mycroft. Come on. You need to wake up..."

* * *

As soon as he laid eyes on him, Lestrade could tell that the Dartford inspector was a personality type he knew well. Master of his own little universe, and determined to make everyone know it. Something indefinable but identifiable about the swagger as he crossed the front walk outside, or the way he glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant accompanying him. He was the entire cavalry, and he had arrived - stocky, bearded, face chafed red with the raw breeze. But before he could make an arse of himself throwing his weight around "his" crime scene, Lestrade stepped into the breach.

"Evening. I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police," he said calmly, pulling his warrant card out of his pocket. "Second-in-command of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command Unit for the London Boroughs of Southwark and Hackney. And _you_ are?"

"DI Philip Coventry," was the humbled, slightly disgruntled response. "Dartford CID."

Lestrade, despite the circumstances, bit down on the urge to smile. In his experience, there never was a greater dick-measuring competition among police officers than when different CIDs were brought together, everyone anxious to work out who was top dog and who was merely a carpet shark.

Coventry had now turned to Sherlock questioningly. "This is…?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said before Sherlock could open his mouth. "He's a consulting detective with the Met. He's also the brother of the assault victim, and his colleague, John Watson, is out there with the ambulance." He glanced at the blown-out window; the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles on the front drive made the shards on the floor sparkle like the lights on the nearby Christmas tree.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Coventry looked at him with a glimmer of ungrudging interest. "Oh yes, I've heard of you. Solved that case in Somerset; the dead bloke with the code in his pocket."

Sherlock nodded in silence.

"Well, I hope you're as good as they say you are – especially since it looks like it's cut a little close to home this time. And so our victims are lovers, then." Coventry went straight to the point. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Inspector Coventry, if you're going to claim this as a hate crime, I'm going to be very, very disappointed in you," he said witheringly.

Lestrade stiffened. Not a great way to begin the investigation, but that was usually how Sherlock interacted with officers he wasn't familiar with. He seemed to find it easier to assume they _were_ going to detest him, and to respond in kind, than make any attempt at being likeable. Coventry was obviously one of the more patient officers they'd come across in the process of an investigation; he merely frowned without bristling in defence.

"You think not, Mr. Holmes?" was all he asked.

"Of _course_ not. If it were a hate crime, my brother would _also_ be missing – or he'd be dead. He has the words "when we want you, we will take you" carved on his fingers. Bit odd for a hate crime, don't you think? I would have thought an obscene gay slur would have been more appropriate."

"Then what-"

"Stephen Hassell is just a hostage," Sherlock said calmly. "This has nothing at all to do with him as a person, and is directed entirely at Mycroft. It reeks of a personal vendetta. _When we want YOU, we will take YOU. _Mycroft does tend to make enemies far more easily than he makes friends. In this case, however he came to antagonise them, it was three men of working class background."

"How could you know that? Has your brother made a statement?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not ready for it yet," he said before Sherlock could get a word in. He folded his arms, partly as a professional gesture and partly because the room, with its gaping window, was freezing. "Concussion. Preliminary comments suggest that he doesn't remember the attack at all."

"They never do, do they?" Coventry sighed deeply.

"No, not usually," Lestrade agreed, with a slight bite in his tone. "But then, we can hardly blame Mycroft for that. That's concussion and shock for you."

"Could we possibly concentrate on the issue at hand for one moment?" Sherlock demanded, shuffling through the broken glass and going over to where the window had been broken in. He glanced out briefly, as if he were checking for something; outside it was still snowing in light little flakes, like something portrayed on one of the Christmas cards displayed on the mantelpiece.

"Go on, Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly.

"Thank you." Sherlock took a deep breath and turned back on one heel to face them. "That Stephen was abducted by three men of humble origins is perfectly obvious from the evidence collected so far," he said. "These were men. Statistical certainty. They were amateurs, and they got lucky. There were three – four would be too many to comfortably transport Stephen away from the crime scene, and two is too few to take on two grown men. I'm unfamiliar with Stephen's current state of fitness or any prior training he may have had in self defence, but Mycroft can generally take care of himself, when he's not caught in a vulnerable position. They left in an older-model Toyota van; it lost traction on the road two miles west of here on the Abingdon Road, and luckily for you I've photographed that evidence. Old car? They can't afford a newer one."

"How do you know it was a Toy-"

"Each car make has unique measurements between the four wheels," Sherlock informed him smoothly. "That, and some telling tyre marks, narrowed it down to a Toyota van, probably mid-nineties, no later than 1998. That they smashed the window over here speaks also to how disappointingly amateur this whole event was. Professionals would have picked the lock, or knocked the door in, or used a glasscutter. A _really_ clever abductor would have connived to be let in voluntarily. Smashing the glass is the action of someone who has probably never broken into anywhere in their life before. Mycroft was caught unawares on the cellar steps and Stephen, it seems, was either naked or dressed only in his underwear."

Coventry shook his head, like a hunting dog with a duck in its mouth. "Underwear?"

"The, uh, the man's clothes are on the bedroom floor," Lestrade muttered, pointing. Coventry took a few steps toward the hall; two of his constables, who had been milling around the door, made moves to do likewise when Sherlock cut them off.

"For God's sake, Coventry," he growled. "Get these morons on your team to stop trampling the _evidence_."

Coventry glanced across at Lestrade, who looked back at him and shrugged almost imperceptibly. He sighed. "Perkins," he said. "Keep everyone out of here for a few minutes. Get them to concentrate on the front walk and the gravel."

* * *

Mycroft was draped in a blanket on the back ledge of the ambulance, nursing a cup of hot tea in one hand and his phone in the other. He was passively allowing a young woman in a high visibility jacket to put a thermometer in his ear.

"Everything okay?" John asked him, approaching almost furtively. His boots barely made a sound on the white gravel beneath them.

"Getting there," the woman beside him answered, smiling wryly. "No signs of hypothermia… not a good night to be wandering around in pyjamas, though." She looked at the temperature readout. "Bit low, but nothing to really worry about. Mycroft, when's your birthday?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, not this again," he said in exasperation. "February 2nd, 1967. If you ask me that one more time tonight, I'm going to arrange to have you fired immediately."

The woman looked at John in disbelief, as if she were about to question Mycroft's sanity.

"No, he's not delirious," John told her amiably. "He really _could_ get you fired immediately. I wouldn't push it. Just give us a minute, will you?"

She looked at Mycroft distrustfully for a few seconds, then stepped off the back of the ambulance. The vehicle wobbled slightly as she went around to the cabin. John had barely waited for her to leave before he spoke.

"Sherlock's on this, Mycroft."

"I know." Mycroft drew the blanket closer around his shoulders.

"So he'll find Stephen pretty quickly."

"So I hope."

There was a slightly awkward silence. Mycroft watched in bleary-eyed confusion as the officers from Dartford set up floodlights so that they could examine the front drive for any evidence that Sherlock had missed – which, he reflected, was almost certainly going to be nothing. Not so much as a single hair.

A stabbing pain suddenly impaled his forehead, and he flinched and put his hand up to it.

"That hurts?" John frowned.

"I was beaten unconscious," Mycroft snapped back, despite the fact that raising his voice caused another throb of pain. "Of _course_ it bloody hurts."

"Okay. I deserved that…"

Mycroft, hearing a sudden clear, bell-like melody from the direction of his lap, looked down. He had been clutching his mobile in one hand since before they had arrived, and refused to put it down; now he looked at the display for a few seconds.

"Who is it?" John asked him.

"Number withheld." Mycroft took a deep breath. He suddenly felt sick, but there was no other option; he pressed the in-call button and lifted it to his ear. "Mycroft Holmes speaking."

For the first four seconds of the call, there was nothing but breathing.

"Mycroft…"

Mycroft swallowed down hard. "I'm listening," he said, briefly and clearly. He looked up at John for a moment.

"Your boyfriend is reading out our note," Stephen said. He drew an audible, pained breath. "He's an obedient little bitch, all right. Good at taking orders. On Old Year's Night, we're going…" he choked. "We're going to slit his throat. With a million pounds in cash… we can avoid all that…"

"I can't possibly get a million pounds in cash that quickly," Mycroft objected calmly. "Whether you slit his throat or not, it won't avail you of the money. It's impossible."

"One moment…" Stephen rasped, still breathing heavily down the line. "He's writing another note…"

Mycroft waited in silence for a few more seconds, listening to Stephen's sniffling.

"Bring ten thousand to the blasted oak in Churchdowne Wood at midnight tomorrow night," he said at last. "Un-Unmarked notes. Manila envelope. Come alone. N-no weapons. No cameras. No police. Or we'll…" Stephen's voice caught again, and he gave a strangled sob. "Or we'll mess him up. Might start by cutting off his ears..."

"Then you may well kill him in doing so," was Mycroft's response. "After your charming efforts in the living room. A man only has so much blood in his body. And I regret to inform you that I have no mind to ransom a dead man."

"Bring the money. Midnight tomorrow…" Stephen choked again.

"I'm going to find you, Stephen," Mycroft told him, clutching the phone so hard it stung his fingertips. "I'm going to find you, and I'm-"

As he had anticipated, the response was a sharp click, and then silence.

* * *

**_A/N-_**_ "Parson's Pleasure" was an area on the banks of the River Cherwell at Oxford University, set aside for men's nude bathing up until it was closed in 1990. Nude bathing/sunbathing wasn't at all necessarily associated with homosexuality – hence Oliver's shocked reaction to Mycroft's gesture, despite the fact that he was naked._

_Lestrade's official position is a little fudged here, since canon seems to do the same - for example, there hasn't yet been any mention of Lestrade's DCI._


	4. Inferences

"Well, that phone call certainly revealed a great deal, however unintentionally."

Sherlock and Lestrade, on John's summons, had both come out to the ambulance and heard Mycroft's word-for-word recounting of the kidnapper's call by proxy. As if the contents of the call itself hadn't been enough to indicate that things were bad, John knew it by the fact that no sooner had the explanation left Mycroft's mouth than his brother offered him a cigarette. Despite knowing that both Holmes brothers were on a lifelong quest to give up smoking for good, he didn't comment. Neither did the paramedics, though they did make Mycroft get up from the back of the ambulance and wander toward Lestrade's car before he lit up. John watched him do so carefully. Wasn't walking in a straight line yet, though he probably wasn't about to pass out again. His fingers shook as he held the cigarette between two fingers and Sherlock lit it for him.

"What did it reveal?" John asked.

"That the kidnapper has a recognisable voice, one he's anxious to conceal from me," Mycroft offered tiredly, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

"More than that." Sherlock, intercepting John's glance, promptly wiped the smug smile off his face. After all, getting one over Mycroft was only enjoyable when Mycroft's intellect wasn't compromised by a head injury. "Recognisable accent, I should imagine. You're absolutely sure that he said Old Year's Night?"

"Yes," Mycroft told him. "Odd turn of phrase, not one I'd be likely to mistake for any other."

"Wait, what's that mean?" John wanted to know, realising that there was an understanding between the Holmes brothers that he was once again not privy to.

"It's another expression for New Year's Eve, isn't it?" Lestrade asked. "I once had a girlfriend from out Dereham or somewhere, and she called it that."

As if rewarding him, Sherlock passed his cigarette over. Lestrade took two puffs and handed it back. John _did _roll his eyes at this. Greg wasn't traumatised enough to get a free pass on breaking his smoking fast.

"Yes," Sherlock finally said. "Also used in places like the Caribbean… but on the balance of probability, I'd place money on Norfolk rather than Jamaica. You, Mycroft?"

"Yes." Mycroft took a shaky drag of his cigarette. "There was something else in that call that I couldn't convey by providing you with a transcript, though," he said unexpectedly.

"And what's that?"

"Stephen was audibly shaken by his experience, but he was _not _shivering… or at least, he wasn't shivering severely enough for it to be evident in his voice."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Which reinforces my belief that they have no immediate intentions of harming Stephen beyond the measures they took to subdue and abduct him. Nobody provides a warm place for their hostage if they intend to kill them anyhow." He paused. "They also apparently referred to Stephen as a _bitch_. Prison parlance?"

"You hear that kind of thing on telly all the time, so not necessarily," John protested. "I mean, it doesn't necessarily mean the kidnapper's _been_ in prison, if that's what you're getting at."

"No, it doesn't necessarily _mean _it," Sherlock conceded scathingly. "But it's suggestive, as is the fact that they are so intimately acquainted with a particular tree in Churchdowne Wood, and immediately dropped their ransom price from a million in six days to ten thousand in one."

"What's that mean?"

"They're amateurs who are familiar with the local area, but have no idea how to demand a ransom. And they're not interested in the money," Sherlock said. "They just want to run rings around Mycroft, whom they hold a grudge against. For some reason."

"Most kidnappers aren't interested in the money," Lestrade commented, kicking at the gravel at his feet. "Not in my experience, anyway. They make ransom demands and even if the friends and family comply…"

Sherlock shot him a look which screamed _shut up._

"Anyway." Lestrade cleared his throat. "They've made a demand and we need to at least try to keep our end of the bargain. Mycroft, you're sure they didn't specify that _you_ had to be the one to make the drop-off?"

Mycroft frowned. "I'm certain," he finally said. "Though it was certainly implied."

"Yeah, well, if they specified no coppers, wires, cameras or any other tricks, but didn't say you had to be there yourself, we'll take that," Lestrade said. "By that, I mean there's no way in hell you're making that drop-off yourself."

"What-?"

"And neither are you, Sherlock, so don't even bother volunteering. _When we want you, we will take you. _We took your partner. We'll take _you_ if we feel like it. And having hit you where it hurts in taking Stephen, we may well take Sherlock, too. Not happening."

"I-"

"I said _no, _Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was almost a growl. "I've also just been talking to Coventry – there's absolutely nothing more we can do here tonight. I'm not a doctor, but I bet the best thing Mycroft could be doing right now would be sleeping in bed."

John nodded; he waited until Sherlock and Mycroft had gone back to the house to collect whatever items the latter needed on him before he spoke up.

"Okay, what's this about?" he asked quietly.

Lestrade looked at him stonily for a few seconds. "I'm just doing my job," he returned. But John shook his head.

"Nope. Pretty sure your job doesn't strictly involve you _having_ to offer yourself as a ransom mule."

Lestrade fumbled at his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette of his own. This time John watched him light it without rolling his eyes or huffing at him. He waited in silence for a few minutes for him to take a few drags.

"Six months before I met Sherlock, there was a kidnapping case… fifteen year old girl called Jennie Earl," he finally said, muttering the words into his chest. "Started to walk half a mile home from school… never got there. Nobody saw it. The kidnapper demanded a ransom and told the family to drop it off in Slough Cemetery. We evacuated the area, and I took the money and waited for the kidnapper to show up."

"And… they didn't?"

"No, they did," Lestrade responded, in tones that implied the fact that they'd showed up had been the problem. "On time, too, which hardly ever happens. Just the one kidnapper, which hardly ever happens either. Balaclava, gun, you know, the works. Looking back, I was lucky I got off alive. They brought an unmarked vehicle through the gates and I could see Jennie strapped into the front seat of the car. She looked a bit… odd… but I didn't know why at the time." He cleared his throat. "Anyway. So I gave him the ransom and he peeled off, but a unit chased him down before he got to Uxbridge. Ran the car off the road. Caught the kidnapper. A guy called Geoffrey Maxham. He's still doing time. He'll die in prison."

He paused.

"And Jennie?" John pressed quietly.

"Jennie was dead – she'd been stabbed to death and sexually assaulted. She'd been dead at the cemetery. The sick bastard had propped her up in the passenger seat, put the seatbelt around her, and taped her eyelids open."

John's jaw dropped. "Shit."

"Yep."

"You - you think they're going to kill Stephen."

"They might. Even if they don't really mean to – a lot of hostages are killed by accident by kidnappers who don't know what they're doing. And Sherlock reckons they're amateurs. I agree with him." He paused. "And if they leave his corpse under that tree, I want to be the guy who finds it, not Mycroft."

John was silent for a few seconds. "I'll come with you," he said finally.

"No, you won't." Lestrade dragged on his cigarette.

"You know I'd be good backup," John protested. "I'm a decent shot, and –"

"And you've got a family."

"So do you."

"Yeah, but if I get killed tomorrow, _my_ kids will remember me." Lestrade threw his cigarette onto the gravel and crushed it under his heel; then he seemed to remember that dropping a cigarette with his DNA on it wasn't a good idea even for the peripheral areas of a crime scene, and picked it up again. Not knowing exactly what to do with it, he tucked it into his wallet. "Anyway. Not discussing it anymore, John."

John could tell by Lestrade's tones that the conversation was over for the time being. Sherlock and Mycroft had just emerged from the house; Sherlock was carrying an overnight bag over his shoulder and led the way over to the car.

"Take us back to Baker Street," he said shortly, throwing the bag into the boot, slamming it shut and opening the passenger side door. "Mycroft's staying with me for a bit."

John frowned. "Are you sure you -"

"I said, my brother is staying with _me_."

* * *

It was nearly one a.m. by the time Lestrade dropped John off at the house and he quietly let himself in. Molly was sitting by the fire, her laptop resting on her knees and Casper sitting on the arm of her chair. As soon as he entered, she gently closed the laptop and slid it under her chair, standing up. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"Hmm, what?" He looked up at her a little distractedly, taking off his gloves and putting them on the side table as he came into the room. A sure sign to her that he was agitated – John hated it when people put things on that table, despite her constant entreaties that tables were generally supposed to be surfaces that you put things on. "Oh – yeah. Fine," he finally said. "I'm fine. Nothing happened to me."

"What's happening?"

"Stephen's been abducted." Toby had wrapped himself around John's legs, and he picked him up, tweaking idly at the sprig of tinsel that Hayley had insisted on tucking into his collar that afternoon. "Sherlock thinks he's still in Kent somewhere, and he's put in word to have the kidnapping announced on telly - the early morning bulletin. Thinks the kidnapper might be a former inmate, but that's a long story."

"And is Mycroft okay?"

"Physically? He'll be okay. Bit of a nasty shock, and he got a fair whack on the back of the head, but the paramedics thought he was all right to be released. He's staying with Sherlock for the moment." John cleared his throat, wondering if he should mention the ransom adventure planned for the next night.

That could wait. No need to heap it on her in one go.

"Shame about poor Charlie's first Christmas," he finally said ruefully.

"We got through most of the day with lots of fun," Molly pointed out. "Anyway, she won't remember it."

"_You_ will."

She shrugged. "Yes, well, I'm just sorry it turned out so horrible for Mycroft and Stephen," she said. "I can't complain because you had to go out and help them – it wasn't anyone's fault except…" she stopped, as if realising that she was on the verge of saying something tactless. Taking a deep breath, she reached over and squeezed John's hand. Her engagement ring was slightly askew, and he felt the diamond setting graze up against his fingers for a second.

"I'll make it up to you."

She smiled and kissed him. "No, you won't," she said. "There's nothing to make up. And Charlie should be proud that she has a father who helps people like that even when it's… well, even when it's not very convenient."

Reluctantly, he returned her smile. "I dunno," he said. "If I were Charlie I'd be more impressed by the fact that my mother is a _saint."_

"It's really okay, John. It was good… great… until the call came in. And… you were safe this year."

John had no recollection of the Christmas before – he'd been in a coma, and it had been about the exact same time a year before that Molly had been told, again, that her husband of only ten weeks was likely to die. John had no argument against this, and simply gave a vague shrug.

"How is Charlie, anyway?" he asked in different tones.

"Fast asleep." Molly sounded pleased. Charlie had recently started to sleep for much longer periods than before; the extra sleep meant that both her parents had more energy for themselves. "Went down without a fuss- I think she was tired out from her big day. Are you hungry?"

John shook his head.

"Then come to bed," she said softly, reaching out for his hand. "There's nothing you can do right now, is there? You'll be a better help to Mycroft if you're rested."


	5. St Stephen's Day

Mycroft had been very quiet in the back seat for the entire trip back to London; once John had been dropped off he said not a word before they pulled up at Baker Street. His pyjamas had been confiscated at the crime scene for any evidence that could be derived from the pattern of bloodstains on them; not having the time or the inclination to dress into a three-piece suit, Mycroft had distractedly put on the first shirt and jacket that Sherlock had handed him. Perhaps, Sherlock reflected as they got out of the car, perhaps he would have been better to have insisted on the suit. The jacket was thin, and Mycroft was shivering violently. This wasn't lost on Mrs Hudson who, late though it was, met them in the front hall as they came in.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry to hear what's happened," she immediately said, frowning. She drew her dressing gown around herself, but she didn't look as embarrassed as she might otherwise have done to have her tenant's intimidating brother see her in her nightie and slippers. "Perhaps a nice cup of tea would make you feel a little bit better? I've put the fire on upstairs and put a hot water bottle in John's old bed for you, dear, that should warm you up a bit."

"The sofa is perfectly acceptable," Mycroft said shortly, but Sherlock gave him a gentle nudge in the direction of the stairs.

"Go to bed, Mrs. Hudson," he said, steering Mycroft ahead of him step by step. "And don't be so absurd, Mycroft. There is no logic behind your sleeping on a sofa when there's a perfectly good bed upstairs."

Sherlock took him up to what had once been John's old bedroom; a much smaller room than his own, and it had always appeared even smaller due to the sloping roof and dark curtains. Still, this bedroom was warmer than Sherlock's; although Sherlock's room got residual heat from the kitchen, the one upstairs had its own fireplace on the same flue as the one in the living room. Mrs. Hudson had lit fires in both, and a certain lumpy appearance of the duvet indicated she'd been true to her word about the hot water bottle.

"Thank you," Mycroft said briefly, looking around. "Quite sufficient."

Sherlock left his brother to undress into pyjamas; Mycroft threw them on as quickly as possible and was just considering coming downstairs after the offered tea when there was a creak on the stairs and the door clicked open. He looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Hudson with a tea tray. Instead he saw Sherlock bearing not a teacup, but a mug, and even worse – ugh! – it was obvious that the tea had been made with a _teabag. _Too exhausted and numb to even look withering about it, let alone say something, Mycroft took the hot mug between his palms and sipped patiently at the strong, sweet brew.

"Dartford Constabulary will be working throughout the night," Sherlock finally remarked.

"Yes, I imagine so."

"And judging from the illegal u-turn he made after we got out of the car, I'm confident that Lestrade is returning to his office, not his home."

"Yes. I'll be sure to commend him to his superiors for his diligence."

Sherlock coughed slightly into his hand. "Despite what John thinks, exploring the prison system might yield some further clues," he said. "I'm going to address that immediately, though you understand I'll only be able to launch a full investigation after nine this morning."

"Indeed."

There was silence, broken only by the windows rattling against the freezing wind outside.

"I _will_ find him for you, Mycroft," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I will find him, and I will bring him back to you."

~~ii~~ii~~ii~~ii~~

In the pale, pre-dawn light of early morning the next day - _St. Stephen's Day_ - Mycroft stumbled down the staircase and onto the first-floor landing. He still felt far too cold, despite the warm bed he'd just risen out of; he fought viciously to put all speculations on Stephen's physical state in this weather out of his mind.

_That won't help._

Or as both brothers might have expressed it aloud: worrying about Stephen freezing to death was not likely to help them find him any faster.

Going into the living room, which reeked of stale cigarette smoke, he found Sherlock sitting at the living room table. Glancing over at the clock, Mycroft saw that it was now half-past seven; Sherlock had yet to go to bed. Before him was a pile of photographs and papers. His laptop was open to one side, and his phone lay on the other; without permission, Mycroft picked it up and read the most recent text, one that had come in from Lestrade at 3:17am.

_Secured ransom & referred case. Mel's onto the prison databases - parolees w/ history. Dawson aware. Still talking John out of coming along. _

"I'm not convinced that John needs to involve himself in this case," Mycroft remarked, annoyed at finding himself somewhat croaky.

"If you ask his opinion, John needs to involve himself in _every_ case," Sherlock said absently, looking over the prints he'd made of photographs taken the night before.

"As a matter of fact," Mycroft continued, crossing his arms, "I don't think that Detective Inspector Lestrade should involve himself. If it becomes known that he's a police officer…"

"He's confident that he can pass as a civilian in that part of the world."

"I doubt that."

"We'll see." Sherlock pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "Coffee is on the counter."

Mycroft turned to look at it. "You made coffee," he remarked blankly.

"Yes. I do know how."

"That wasn't my point." Mycroft shuffled over to the kitchen counter and picked up the cup Sherlock had evidently made for him. Horribly bitter – Mycroft liked his black coffee with four sugars – but it was as hot and comforting as the tea he'd had the night before. He sipped in silence, listening to the clicks and shuffles as Sherlock worked on at the table.

"You've not had any other calls?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Oh, how could I forget?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, I've had six calls from the kidnappers with further instructions I haven't bothered to let you know about."

"No need for sarcasm," he said absently, still concentrating on his computer. "You do have a concussion, after all, so I can't vouch for your mental acumen just now. Aspirin is over there." He waved his hand again without getting up. "John recommends you take it."

Mycroft went back over to the kitchen bench, finding the tablets beside the microwave and obligingly worrying down two of them.

"I'm almost one hundred percent certain of it now," Sherlock went on. "1997 Toyota Hiachi."

"Is that a useful lead, then?" Mycroft wanted to know, slightly bitchily. He idly rubbed the back of his aching head.

"It is when it's coupled with quite another interesting revelation," Sherlock said. "Melissa rang half an hour ago. There's a prisoner in Wandsworth who wants a bit of a chat with you this morning. Apparently, he's identified a man whom he believes to be the kidnapper."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Our helpful informant is one Eric Dolan." Sherlock turned the laptop so that Mycroft could see the article he was looking at, with the accompanying photograph. Eric Dolan was balding and chubby-cheeked, with disarming dimples and mild brown eyes. "Doing four years for tax evasion, of all things in the world. Have you heard of him?"

"Yes." Mycroft sipped his coffee. "Though more for his complicity in vice, acceptance of stolen goods, bootlegging and drug trafficking than for his tax offences."

"Remarkable how the justice system hasn't been able to pin those crimes on him. One would almost think they were deliberately turning a blind eye." Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly. He looked up. "Anyhow, the early bulletin into the kidnapping went through. Dolan saw it, as we'd intended, and volunteered that he had a cell mate last year who seemed rather unimpressed with you, brother. Paul Doherty. Forty-two." This time he handed over a printout from a website. "Just finished eleven years for arms trafficking. The taskforce are searching for him now. I will bet a considerable amount that he, or someone he knows, happens to own the car we're looking for, though it may take a while for me to access records as such. But oh, do guess where he's originally from."

"Norfolk. Norwich, as a matter of fact," Mycroft said immediately, sitting down at the kitchen table and reflecting on this for a few seconds. "Paul Doherty. I… was involved in a counter-trafficking operation twelve years ago. I testified at his trial."

~~ii~~ii~~ii~~ii~~ii~~

"I knew the second I seen the news report, Mr. Holmes."

The justice system may or may not have turned a blind eye to the many and varied crimes of Eric Dolan. But they were certainly complicit in the man's determination to smoke himself into an early grave inside of prison walls. Dolan flicked the ash into a nearby ashtray and shoved the half-smoked cigarette into his mouth again, leaning back in his chair. Mycroft sat opposite him, hands neatly folded into his lap; Sherlock was standing, alert and silent, near the door.

"Oh, indeed?" was all Mycroft trusted himself to say. He was trying, Sherlock saw, to cover up the plasters on his fingers.

"Doherty's… well, let's just say I know him. Pretty well, in fact." He ashed his cigarette again.

"You're friends?"

"Fuck, no. He's a backstabbing prick." Dolan put his feet on the table, as if defying Mycroft to express disgust or tell him not to; Mycroft made no reaction to this obvious ploy for dominance, though behind him he could tell that Sherlock had just made a "face."

"But he thought you were his friend?" he heard Sherlock say from over his shoulder.

"He was one of my boys." Dolan tapped idly on the table with his fingers. "We _were_ good... friends... for a bit there." He smirked. "He told me things. Like how he was going to fix you well and proper when he got out of here. I think at first he was planning on messing up your brother. Don't know why he changed his mind on that one." He shrugged. "But the last I saw of him, he still reckoned he was going after you when he got out."

"And how long ago was that?"

"How long ago did he get out?" Dolan took a drag on his cigarette, considering. "Jeez, time goes weird in here, but I think it was last month. Full sentence. Serves him right."

"I see." Mycroft nodded, closing one hand over the other again. "And now I must come to the most important question, Mr. Dolan. Just why are you telling me this?"

Dolan smiled again, revealing his dimples and the decidedly less attractive gap between his nicotine-stained front teeth. "Like I said, he's one of mine. He knows me. Told me things."

Mycroft fixed the prisoner with one of his patented bird-of-prey stares; Dolan shuffled slightly under his gaze, seemingly intimidated for the first time.

"I've got cancer, Mr. Holmes," he finally said. "Six months to live. You can check me records if you don't believe me. I've got five weeks left on me full sentence. Knocked back on parole twice."

"I think I see where this is going."

"I got kids, Mr. Holmes. I miss 'em, and their mum. Emily and Daniel. They're nice kids. I want to see them a bit before I get too sick for it. Get me out of here, and I'll bring you your man. 'Cause at the moment there are two things I want: me out of here, and that bastard back in."

Mycroft chuckled bitterly. "And what," he said, "makes you think you're any more trustworthy than _Doherty_ is? You're as likely to disappear entirely as bring me my man."

The two men looked at each other impassively for a few seconds; finally Dolan shrugged. "You're as cold as they say, Mr. Holmes, if you're happy to throw your friend to the dogs for the sake of five weeks," he said. "But I just made an offer; you don't have to take it. Have it your way."

"Thank you." Mycroft said icily, getting up. "I can assure you, I always do."

~~ii~~ii~~ii~~ii~~ii~~

"So it's not even an oak, then?" John peered across the dark fields at the clump of trees on the horizon.

"Apparently not." Lestrade shoved his hands into his pockets; the night wind was freezing, and the pale winter grass was frosted over. "Elm. But everyone calls it the Blasted Oak. Something killed it years ago. Insects or something. I don't know. I'm not a tree expert."

He folded the bulky manila envelope and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. It was the only thing on him; he'd just given his phone and wallet to John, who was standing beside the car with him. The police had evacuated all the farmhouses along Fawkham Road, which bordered the wood on one side; the only residence that was occupied was a sprawling white farmhouse a quarter of a mile further on, where the Scotland Yard Serious Crimes Unit had set up a taskforce to monitor the drop-off from afar. There also, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were waiting.

There had been no call from the kidnappers, or from Stephen, that day, and tension was high between the Holmes brothers. Lestrade considered it a win that he'd managed to convince both of them to stay away from the Wood itself, though he hadn't totally succeeded in keeping John away. He'd insisted on waiting by the car as armed backup if needed.

"You don't come up unless I say, John," he reminded him.

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

"Okay."

Lestrade was well acquainted with John's dismissive 'okay.' He didn't trust it, but there was nothing he could really do about it. "And for God's sake," he said, "don't fire unless you have to."

This time John gave him a withering look. "Greg," he said. "I will come up there if I think you need it, and I'll fire if I think I have to, and you're going to be late 'cause it's ten to midnight already, so stop talking and get a move on. Just… don't get killed."

"Will do." Lestrade looked wry. "I mean, _won't_ do."

John watched him hurry up the path, torch in one hand, the other shoved in his jacket pocket. He hoped Greg had enough sense to take it back out again before he confronted someone who may well believe him to be armed. But then, like he'd said… he'd done this at least once before and managed to not be killed.

There was an anxious pause, though in the darkness John wasn't sure whether it was for a few minutes or a solid hour. A night bird wailed in the skeletal elms behind him, and some wild creature screamed from behind the wilted hedge. A fox, perhaps, or something being killed by one. The torch Lestrade held seemed to disappear once he'd reached the tree line; a few minutes later and it reappeared again.

_"John!"_

Leaving the car door open, John cleared the hedge and ran up the path toward the light; Lestrade was shining it directly at him, not realising or caring that it was shining into his eyes and blinding him. As soon as John reached him, he grabbed the hand Lestrade had wrapped around the torch handle and dipped the beam onto the ground.

"What?" he demanded, puffing vapour into the dull light shining between them. "Oh, shit, you didn't find – ?"

Lestrade shook his head. He was wide-eyed, his own breath emerging in short, sharp bursts.

"Greg, did you see anyone?" John demanded. His hand had instinctively snaked around to the back of his belt, fingers resting on the Browning. "Another person? Is there anyone else in the wood?"

Another shake of the head. "I… didn't see anyone…"

John glanced back at the dark wood behind Lestrade – a wood that could well be crawling with armed criminals, silently watching them from among the ghostly trees. "Okay, we need to get out of here…"

It was then that he saw the envelope in Lestrade's left hand. Not the one he'd left with; that one had been manila yellow and this was white. Or it had been, and was now soaked through in places with stains and smears the colour of rust. John snatched the torch out of Lestrade's hand, flicked the setting down to a weaker beam, and concentrated the beam onto the envelope.

"What?" he said again. "Did you open it? What is it?"

"I found it under the… the Blasted Oak…" Lestrade got out with difficulty. "Yeah, I, uh, I opened it…" Gingerly, he opened it again and drew out a bloodstained note between his gloved fingers. In the high beam of the torch, John read it:

_You lose this one_

But it was not the note that had shaken both men so badly, but that which was also enclosed in the stained folds of paper.


	6. No Advantage

The room was dark and cold when Molly woke; John had just come in and was gently closing the door behind him, though she could hear him breathing rapidly, as if he'd just run up the stairs. She squinted in the deep shadows and realised he had Charlie in his arms.

"Oh, what's wrong?" She got up and crossed the room to him. Charlie was sound asleep against his shoulder; she could feel him shaking very slightly, and she drew her arms around them both. "What happened, John? Why-"

John shook his head. "I just… need to… just… maybe go back to sleep for a bit… have her here with us, maybe…" he faltered.

She blinked as she realised John was intending to bring Charlie back to the bed with them; Brooke Cade would definitely _not _approve, but she said nothing as he put the sleeping baby on the mattress and curled up next to her, still breathing a little quickly. She gave his hand a brief squeeze in the darkness, then gently patted his shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, as if she'd asked him. "Just… need to have her here for a while. I'll tell you in the morning…"

~~oo~~oo~~oo~~oo~~

By the time Molly woke the next morning the bedroom was flooded with pale sunshine, and neither John nor Charlie were in the bed with her. She got up, threw her dressing gown and slippers on, and wandered over to the nursery. Charlie was fast asleep in her cradle, snuggled up in her little fleece jumpsuit with the rabbit ears on the hood, another fashion statement courtesy of her doting Aunt Harry. She hadn't been wearing that the evening before; John must have changed her into it, though he'd never admit to actually _liking_ the bunny jumpsuit. Molly, smiling over her daughter and grateful that she was sleeping soundly, kissed her fingertips, laid them gently on Charlie's chubby, spittled cheek, and crept out again.

She found John downstairs at the kitchen table, nodding over a cup of coffee. He looked sharply up at her as she came in, as if she'd startled him; she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He'd had a bad night. She went to the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea in silence. No sense in pushing him to talk if he didn't want to. It was only when she'd brought her tea back to the table and sat down beside him that he quietly spoke.

"They cut off his ears, Molly."

She blinked, unsure for a few seconds as to whether he'd said what she thought he had. "What?"

"It was his ears… in an envelope left at the drop-off point. They were cut off with a razor, Sherlock thinks… Mycroft identified them. Definitely Stephen's. His _bloody ears, _Molly…!"

Molly was silent for a few seconds. If there was something she was not good at, and knew it, it was tact; she thought long and hard about what the right thing to say next would be. "Is Mycroft all right?" she finally murmured.

There had been no perceptible emotion in Mycroft's voice, nor in his eyes, when he'd confirmed the identity of the contents of that envelope with three words: "yes; they're Stephen's." But that had been a well-executed bluff, and everyone who had been present knew it.

John shook his head. "He's a mess," he said. "Well… as much of a mess as Mycroft ever is… you know what he's like. Pretends he doesn't care. And then after he identified… um, he got a text from the kidnappers. Blocked number, of course. They said that next, they're going to send us Stephen's eyes. Then his scrotum."

"Oh, my _God_." Molly clamped her hand to her mouth.

"The last time… the last time the kidnappers communicated, Mycroft actually spoke to Stephen on the phone," John explained. "This time, they just sent a text. It looked to me like Stephen's ears had been cut off hours before we found them..."

"Does Mycroft…"

John shook his head. "Nobody's said it. Not in front of him, anyway. But he's got to know, Molly. He's far from an idiot."

"But why would they do this? If you dropped off the money…"

"We don't know. They didn't say."

Molly, leaning over the table to squeeze John's cold hands in hers, wondered quietly to herself how on earth they were meant to follow the "rules" of the abduction if they didn't know what the kidnapper wanted, and what they'd done wrong.

"Send them to the lab," she said. "The ears, I mean. I might be able to help."

"You're on holidays-"

"Send them to the lab."

* * *

"Okay." Lestrade shuffled the papers in front of him. It was ten o'clock in the morning; Mycroft, looking pale and haggard under the fluorescent lights, was sitting across the interview table. Sally Donovan was at Lestrade's side, but only as a formality; there needed to be two officers there at all times, regardless of how Mycroft might feel about it. Donovan had been "requested" to take notes quietly and only speak when absolutely necessary.

"You know how this goes, Mycroft, yeah?" Lestrade sounded slightly hoarse; running one hand over his jaw, he realised he'd forgotten to shave that morning. "We'll take a break if you need it – just speak up. You have the right to legal counsel and to silence, though I must remind you that you're a witness, not a suspect."

Mycroft nodded.

"You're sure you don't want anyone else in here for you, you know, moral support? Perhaps Sherlock…?"

"I'd rather not."

Lestrade could understand his point. Sherlock was nearby, though not in earshot. He was, or had been last Lestrade had seen him, examining crime scene photographs that he'd arranged on the carpet of his office and muttering "blood, blood, blood" to himself under his breath.

"Okay." Lestrade glanced down at his notes for a second. "Could you tell us, please, what happened? Anything at all, no matter how pointless it might sound."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes as if thinking hard. "We spent most of the day at my apartment. We left there at two and arrived at the house shortly after three," he finally said.

"How did you get there?"

"Stephen's car. I was driving it."

"Why?"

"He asked me to. He didn't – doesn't –" Mycroft flinched. "Doesn't like driving when the roads are frosted over, you understand. Quite a nervous driver. Doesn't drive in the city at all."

"Did anything unusual happen during the trip?" Lestrade asked him. "Did you stop anywhere on the way? Or did you notice anyone following you, or any other suspicious activity like that?"

"No, on all accounts."

"Sure?"

"I'm quite sure." Mycroft looked at him frostily for a few seconds. "I am an observant person with a good memory, Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade silently conceded the point. "Who else knew you were going out to Stephen's place?"

Mycroft sighed and considered. "Sherlock, of course," he said. "John and Molly. I'd made apologies not to be at their house for dinner. Which, of course, means that anyone they mentioned the situation to would know…" he paused. "That seems unlikely. There were no others."

"None?"

"Not to my knowledge. I have no idea who Stephen would have told, or why, and since he is currently _missing, _we can hardly ask him…" Mycroft trailed off, then took a deep breath into his hand. "Anyhow," he continued serenely, quite himself again. "We arrived shortly after three, as I said, and we had an uneventful afternoon. Stephen put the evening meal on at half-five. We shared a bottle of wine between half-five and six, approximately."

"Okay." Lestrade was writing down his own notes, and Donovan had been scribbling away since the interview had begun. "But you weren't terribly affected by the alcohol? Neither of you?"

"I'm not a teenage girl, Lestrade."

"Nope, you're certainly not." Lestrade put his pen down. "Right, so we're up to six o'clock. Dinner's in the oven…" It had been found there, burned almost to charcoal, when the Dartford police had arrived. "You'd shared a bottle of wine. Then what happened?"

Mycroft looked at him stonily. "Then we had sex," he said.

"Okay." Lestrade wrote the information down in frank unconcern, then looked up at him and, seeing his expression, he half-smiled. "Mycroft, I've heard a lot of sordid sorts of things in my career. 'Then we had sex' isn't one of them. So then what happened?"

"I went for a shower and put pyjamas on," Mycroft continued, his gaze diverting itself to random spots behind Lestrade. "I returned. Stephen was still on the bed."

"What was he wearing at that time?"

"Not a stitch, to the best of my recollection. We had a brief conversation."

"What about?"

"Nothing pertinent to the situation at hand." Mycroft cleared his throat.

Lestrade smiled grimly again. "I'll be the judge of that. It's not going to embarrass me, Mycroft."

Mycroft hesitated; he glanced down at his hands again, which seemed to strengthen his resolve. He took a deep breath. "He tried to tell me he loved me," he said reluctantly.

"Tried?"

"I don't… love people," Mycroft said awkwardly, making a painstaking effort not to look at Sally Donovan at all. "Not like that. I told him I wouldn't say it, and that talking about it again would only spoil the holiday. He asked if _he_ could say it while I abstained. I told him that was worse. We made light of it, and I went down to the cellar for more wine. While I was continuing back up the steps with it, I heard glass smash."

"And then?"

"And then the next thing I remember, I was very cold, sitting next to a broken window, and on the telephone to John Watson, who was asking me to spell my name backwards."

Lestrade frowned. "You remember absolutely nothing at _all_ in between?" he asked. "I know it's difficult when you've been thumped over the head and had a nasty shock, but do your best, Mycroft. Even the tiniest thing could be important."

Mycroft was silent for a few seconds. "I've no memory of that time," he repeated a little stiffly. "However, along with the… communication on my hands…" He looked down at them again and flinched. "I believe I'm harbouring other physical evidence. If I may."

Lestrade made a languid "be my guest" gesture; Mycroft glanced at Donovan for the first time since he'd entered the interview room.

"I do find this rather awkward," he said, a little weakly.

"Donovan, turn your back," Lestrade said easily, without looking at her.

"What?"

Lestrade, still looking at Mycroft, cleared his throat. Rolling her eyes a little, Sally stood up from the chair beside him and made a great show of turning her back to him. Mycroft also stood up and painstakingly removed his jacket, waistcoat and shirt.

"Christ," Lestrade blurted out. "Do Sherlock and John know you look like you've been hit by a _car?"_

"Not exactly, and I'd prefer it if you didn't mention as such." Mycroft gestured to the dark dappled bruises on both arms, at the elbows and wrists. "Fingertip marks, wouldn't you say?"

Lestrade nodded.

"So I was restrained by more than one person, probably while this was being done." He gestured to his fingers again. "The level of intense bruising suggests that I was being held down with some force, which in turn suggests I was both conscious and struggling, but I have no memory of this happening at all."

Lestrade got up, walked around the desk, and inspected Mycroft's right shoulder for a second, then his left. "On your shoulders as well," he muttered as he went back around and slipped back into his seat. "Those'll need to be photographed, Mycroft, for evidence. Sorry. You'll thank me if some bonehead from the Dartford force suggests you held _yourself_ down like that. You'd need four extra arms to manage it."

* * *

After the dull fluorescent lights of the office, the glaring white winter sky above threw an almost painful light in Mycroft's face as he blundered out the front doors of the building in search of a place he could legally smoke.

_He's dead, _he thought dully, spitting thoughts out in disjointed fragments quite unlike the smooth, polished flow his brain usually produced. _His ears… died yesterday… couldn't possibly have survived…_

Mycroft had had occasion to see a lot of gory injuries in his career; he couldn't remember the last time that it had really affected him. But the contents of that sticky, smeared envelope that Lestrade had brought into the farmhouse and tried to bring to Sherlock's attention without his seeing…

Such small, insignificant things, those ears. Just two little flaps of skin, like the scrapings from a careless kitchen knife or the peel of an accidental sunburn. But they weren't carelessly or accidentally done. They had been cut off, by a person; probably sawn off with a razor blade. They'd been sent to Barts so that Molly Watson, good woman that she was, could confirm or deny that.

For one second, Mycroft hoped that Stephen had been dead when it had been done.

But such reflections weren't helping the case, or himself; and they certainly weren't helping him light the cigarette between his lips. He clenched his jaw and tried to make his shaking hands obey him.

"Have you got a spare one? I'm gasping."

Mycroft looked up, unalarmed and barely interested by the feminine voice that had suddenly broken in on his thoughts. Harriet Watson was standing nearby, ungloved hands shoved in her coat pockets, unruly sandy hair plaited tightly off her temples.

He paused for a few seconds, unlit cigarette in his mouth and lighter poised. Finally, he plucked another cigarette out of the packet and handed it over.

"Thanks. If you tell my brother I still smoke…" she paused to light her cigarette, and evidently decided not to say _I'll kill you. _"He thinks I gave it up twelve years ago."

_You did, _Mycroft reflected. Harriet Watson was an alcoholic, but it was clear from the way she fumbled with the cigarette that she hadn't smoked in some time. "John is not upstairs," he said stiffly. "I don't know where he is."

"I do," she said frankly. "He's at home asleep – Molly reckons he came home at half-past two this morning looking like he'd seen a ghost and didn't do much sleeping after that. Anyway, you might be surprised to know that I didn't come here looking for him."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah, came here looking for you, Your Highness… okay, I'm tired of watching you do that. Gimme." She snatched the lighter out of Mycroft's shaking hand and lit his cigarette for him; he had never had a lady make this gesture toward him, and smoked in embarrassed silence for a minute or two.

"So let's not bother with all the bullshit and get right to the point," Harry finally said in upbeat tones. "When was it for you?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise, then shook his head slightly. "When was what?"

"When you realised you were reading Playboy magazines for their well-written and informative articles."

Mycroft's mouth twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

"I just thought, in all this drama, you might need to vent about it to somebody," Harry went on matter-of-factly. "God knows I would. I owe you a million, anyway, for putting up the funds for my stop-drink-shrink. Which is going fine, by the way."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Haven't had a drink since Charlie arrived… I owe you a listening ear, if nothing else. And anyway, if I had to compile a list entitled 'People I Wouldn't Want To Talk About My Sex Life With", your brother's name would be highlighted, bolded and underlined twice at the top. And 'John' would be underneath, highlighted, bolded, italicised, 72-point font- oh, you get the idea. Good men in many ways, I'm sure. But fucking terrible agony aunts."

Mycroft's mouth twitched again, and he fidgeted. "Well, yes," he conceded. "In answer to your original question, I don't think I 'realised' I was…" he trailed off awkwardly, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Gay?" Harry suggested. "I know a few more colourful terms…"

"So do I. I don't think we need to discuss them." Mycroft was looking down the street, watching a bus weave in and out of traffic and making a studied attempt at not meeting her gaze. She waited, looking not directly at him, but at a point somewhere behind his left elbow.

"I don't suppose I've ever really considered my… proclivities… analytically," he finally explained.

Harry shook her head. "Me neither," she said with a shrug. "I mean, I didn't just 'figure out' I was gay one day. I never really went around thinking I was _straight_. Things just… are what they are, don't you think? Such stupid labels we like to put on people."

"Rather."

"If John's being a prat about this, let me know and I'll hit him for you."

This time Mycroft smiled briefly. "No," he said. "Your brother has been… quite supportive…"

"Good; I'm glad. He's not a bad person, you know. Just… inclined to be a prat, that's all." She stubbed out her cigarette under her heel, in cheerful defiance of littering laws. "Anyway. I suppose I'd best be headed back… feel free to hack my phone or whatever it is you do instead of just asking people what their phone number is. I'm a good listener."

"You strike me as most capable of talking."

"They do tend to go hand in hand," she agreed. "Anyway. Offer's there. Don't beat yourself up about this, yeah? Feeling shitty won't find Stephen any faster. It wasn't your fault some psycho decided to kidnap him."


	7. Discovery

"You don't have to do this, Mycroft."

"Hmm?" Mycroft had clearly been very far away, mentally; he snapped back to attention and turned to Lestrade. They were standing in the relative privacy of the DI's office. Down the hall in the media room, a horde of reporters were awaiting the beginning of the press conference, scheduled for five minutes time.

"You don't have to make this statement." Lestrade was struggling with his tie. "Donovan can do it. Or-"

"These people did not kidnap Stephen to make Sergeant Donovan suffer," Mycroft said tersely. "If their main objective in this was to make me suffer, they'll not be content with anything less than seeing me rather publicly..."

_Suffer_.

"Okay." Lestrade glanced at himself in the opposite mirror and winced slightly, reflecting that he looked like he'd slept in a doorway the night before."But if things look like they're getting out of hand, I'm ending the conference. Just so's you know. The Daily Mail's journalists are bad. They're bad even as far as journalists go. If they smell blood in the water..."

Not the greatest analogy to make, considering the circumstances. Lestrade was just contemplating whether to try to step in and repair the damage when he was startled by his phone ringing. The Caller ID had Molly Watson's name emblazoned on it.

"Hi, Greg," she said gently. "Is this a bad time to talk ?"

Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, who seemed entirely occupied with the state of his cravat, though he was probably hanging on every word.

"Nope, all free," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"I... um. I had a look at the, uh, the ears," she fumbled. "As far as I can see, they have ragged edges, like they've been sawn off with a serrated blade, not cut in one clean... you know. Chop."

She paused, obviously realising far too late that her word choice had been a little less than tactful.

"And Greg," she went on, "I think that it could have been done more than twenty-four hours before you... found them. Mycroft is sure they're Stephen's?"

"Yeah."

"Then they were cut off before you and John went to drop off the money. You didn't lose. You couldn't have won."

Lestrade coughed slightly. He wanted to ask the obvious: _was Stephen alive when his ears were cut off? _He glanced over at Mycroft again. Not the time. If Molly wasn't volunteering that he was dead, he could be inferred to be still alive. "Okay," he said. "Thanks."

"John says there was a lot of blood in the house when you got there. Maybe whoever did this cut his ears off while he was still there. Maybe he's still alive."

"Maybe," he conceded carefully. "Um. Thank you. I'll talk more later, Molly."

He softly disconnected the line and took a deep breath.

"News?" Mycroft enquired.

"Sort of." Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. "Long story. Nothing vital. I'll explain it all later." Blatantly dismissive, if not downright lying, but Mycroft was going to have to live with it for the time being. The last thing he needed two minutes before facing the press was to sit and wonder if Stephen had been mutilated right there at the house. Lestrade snapped back to the business at hand.

"Right, let's do this," he said. "And you're absolutely sure you don't want someone else with you?" Most people did; Mycroft Holmes wasn't "most people", but it was worth an ask anyway. "It doesn't have to be Sherlock..."

He broke off. He had no idea at all if Mycroft had any other friends and, if so, who on earth they were.

"I'm perfectly all right, Lestrade."

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Where is Sherlock, anyway?"

"I'm sure I have no idea. He is the least of my concerns just now."

* * *

Mycroft had underestimated Dolan, Sherlock reflected, examining the chubby, dimpled man sitting across the interview table on the second administration floor of Wandsworth Prison. He'd either not seen how much Eric Dolan hated Paul Doherty, or he hadn't fully understood how powerful a motivator that hatred could be. Odd that he'd not realised either of these things. But then, Sherlock remembered a drizzly morning standing on a rooftop with a dead man while his brain gave a series of ear-splitting screams. Caring really wasn't an advantage.

The room surrounding them was bare and chill. Sherlock adjusted his scarf slightly.

"Two days," he said.

Dolan took the cigarette out of his mouth, blowing a puff of rancid smoke into Sherlock's face. The detective did not react.

"Might need more, Mr. Holmes," he commented. But Sherlock shook his head.

"No. Two days... Sixty hours at most. The delivery of the ears indicates that Doherty means business. You need to find him as quickly as possible. Do nothing when you find him, but report to me immediately."

This, Sherlock knew, was going to be the difficult part. If Dolan really hated Doherty so much, his impulse might be to kill the man on sight. And a dead man couldn't explain where Stephen was being held hostage.

"It's plausible that I may be able to present Stephen to Mycroft, alive but without eyes and ears. Castrating the man will be a game-changer. Judging by the delivery of the ears, we have sixty hours at most." He clasped his hands together and leaned across the table. "So tell me. Is Doherty in the habit of killing people by progressive mutilation?"

"Once got arrested for biting a woman's face," Dolan offered casually. "Nearly took her nose clean off. I was there."

"Charming."

Dolan chuckled grimly. "You've no idea, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, I think I do. He wouldn't be the first low-life I've been forced to come into contact with. Not by far." Sherlock's lip twitched for a moment; he took a deep breath. "If I agree to this - and I'm inclined to change my mind about things without warning - then you will be working for me. Not my brother, and not the Met."

"Got you."

"Depending on circumstances, you may be called upon to work directly with me."

Dolan broke into a gappy smile. "I heard you were hands-on in your work, Mr. Holmes."

"Always. It's why I'm the best. I rarely outsource, so consider this as the honour it is. You will, of course, be recompensed for any and all -"

"I don't work for money."

Sherlock paused at this, but there was nothing coy about the way Dolan had said it.

"It seems we understand one another." Sherlock cleared his throat. "And now, understand this: if you betray me, you will regret it. Though not for long, of course." He slid his chair out and stood up, fumbling in his coat pockets for his gloves. "I've heard enough. Let me speak with the authorities."

* * *

Mycroft seemed calm and collected before the television cameras, though Lestrade, sitting in the chair beside him, thought that he detected a faint tremor in his hands as he held the conference notes before him and gave a brief outline on the circumstances of the kidnapping.

"Stephen Hassell is a good man with no enemies," he wrapped up in unemotional tones, though he then cleared his throat. "He hasn't done anything to deserve any cruel treatment. Firstly, I would like to urge anyone who may have seen or heard something unusual in the vicinity on Christmas night to come forward, particularly anyone who observed a Toyota van travelling westward on the Abingdon Road shortly after seven that evening."

He paused.

"Secondly, I urge those responsible for this abduction to please contact me as soon as possible. I'm anxious to speak to Stephen again and establish his safety, and I'm willing to go to great lengths to see him freed."

So far, so good. Mycroft was everything he was supposed to be, or at least appeared that way: calm, polite, obliging. It was only when Donovan, sitting on Mycroft's other side, announced that they would now be fielding questions that Lestrade's heart sank. This was the feeding frenzy. A middle-aged reporter with one of the evening papers, all veneered teeth and slicked-back hair, started the bidding rather high.

"Mr Holmes," he said, "why do you think the kidnappers took Stephen and left you behind?"

Mycroft looked at him in silence for a second, clearly taking in the meaning of the question. For a second, a quiver of helpless, frustrated rage passed over his face. "Well, because their primary aim in this is to force my hand-"

"To what purpose?"

"I don't know." Mycroft clamped his lips together briefly. "Hence my appeal for them to make contact with me as soon as possible."

"Do you think the circumstances of this kidnapping were... unusual?"

Lestrade held his breath, partly with nerves and partly to prevent himself from telling the journalist exactly what he thought of him. It was true that this sort of question skirted the line of decency and could be interpreted a variety of ways. But Mycroft was no fool.

"I think," the elder Holmes said slowly, "the fact that you've received over ten thousand pounds in, shall we say, _charitable donations_ from an important personage in the House of Commons to keep his besmudged family history out of your paper is far _more_ unusual."

"No more questions." Lestrade stood up, taking support of Mycroft's arm by habit , just as if he were a grieving member of the ordinary rank-and-file. There was a sudden flurry from the press; several bulb flashes went off, and Lestrade could picture the Daily Mail headlines there on the spot.

"Mr. Holmes, just one more question, please," a blonde, frowsy woman sitting in the third row suddenly broke in, more forcefully than the others.

Mycroft looked up at her.

"We've just received word that a corpse has been found in sparse woodland seven miles east of Dartford," she said matter-of-factly. "Our sources tell us that the body is male, Caucasian and headless. Do you think it might be Stephen Hassell?"

Silence. Lestrade glanced at Donovan in alarm.

"I'd not yet been made aware of this discovery," Mycroft said hollowly.

"Me neither," Lestrade growled, glancing again at Donovan. "And if the Daily Mail have concealed vital information from the police so that they could drop it for maximum impact on a witness during a live press conference, rest assured that those responsible will find themselves defending charges in court. No more questions."

* * *

_**A/N -**__ I'm sorry for the shortness of the chapter. It was written and uploaded entirely on my iPhone while I was travelling and computerless!_


	8. Tease and Reveal

**_A/N- _**_Computer is back, so I'm back in business! Thank you for being patient. A bit of a short chapter. I'll do better next time._

* * *

"Mycroft, will you listen to me?"

It didn't seem likely that he would, Lestrade reflected in despair. Mycroft had reached the lift before he'd been able to catch him up; he'd just managed to prise the closing door open and get in, though once the door had closed again he did not select a floor. Mycroft did not select one either, though he was looking studiously at the selection of floor buttons as if they were written in some dialect he wasn't acquainted with.

"We didn't _know_," Lestrade insisted. "That was the first I'd heard of it. Do you seriously think that I'd put you in front of the media if I knew someone had found-?"

He trailed off, realising that Mycroft didn't care whether he knew or didn't know about the corpse before the press statement had gone live. Why should he? Dead was dead. There was something in Mycroft's hunched shoulders and restless hands that Lestrade had never seen before. He was still looking over the floor numbers beside him.

"Call your brother," he said.

"Lestrade-"

"Call your brother, or I'll do it for you. He's working his arse off on this case, he at least needs to be somewhere he can be useful to you. The taskforce are going to follow up the new lead and otherwise continue the case. Even if... even if it's Stephen that they've found, we need to catch this bastard."

Before Mycroft could speak again, Lestrade slammed his hand against the Open Door button and the lift doors parted efficiently. As he passed through the open plan office on his way back to his own private one, Dyer stood up, phone at one ear.

"Sir?"

Lestrade stopped. "Yeah?"

"Just been in touch with Doherty's parole officer, sir. He's gone to ground and can't be found. And so has his brother Gary and his brother-in-law, a Brian Merchant. Merchant's got a 1997 Toyota van, sir."

"Great. Circulate the plate number as quick as you can. Donovan – " He called across to where she was also on the phone. "You and I are going out to Dartford this afternoon to see about this corpse they've found."

* * *

John sat back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes for a second. Computer screens had always struck him as difficult to read from for any length of time, and it had been just on two hours since he'd started. He glanced up at the clock blearily. Charlie, lying on her tummy on her play-rug near his feet, had just started a low-level whining and was kicking at the floor in annoyance.

"Yeah, I know, kid," John muttered. "I'll feed you in a minute."

The man of action had somehow along the way become Sherlock's primary researcher during an important case. It wasn't always a role he relished, but he had to admit that it was an obvious one. Of course, Sherlock was more than capable of doing his own research. But when he was in the lab glued to the microscope by one hand while on the phone to the Home Secretary with the other, it wasn't always practical for him to be knee-deep in books, too.

And, John reflected with a sense of pride, it wasn't just a default position while everyone else did more important and interesting things. Over the years that he'd known Sherlock, John had mentally gathered every compliment or half-compliment the man had ever given him, even if it had been grudging or completely accidental. _Thorough. Careful. Organised. Prompt._

There was one compliment Sherlock had always denied him, but that John had never denied himself. Sherlock supposed that John had never been able to make any sense of the data he collected on cases. Well, he was about to be proven wrong again, because _this _development had been well worth two hours and a raging headache. John fumbled through his phone menu and brought up Sherlock's number, glancing down at Charlie as the phone line began to purr and then clicked into action.

"Yes?" Sherlock seemed even more terse than usual, and had called John not five minutes after the conclusion of the press conference to discuss why. _We continue this case assuming that Stephen is alive, John. Until we have absolute proof that he's not._

"Sherlock, it's me," he said, even though he'd never known Sherlock to answer his phone without checking the caller ID first. He suppressed the urge to ask him if he'd caught him at a bad moment. "I've been doing some research about this Doherty guy. Arms trafficking in 2002. Got eleven years -"

"Yes, we've already established that-"

"Wait, hang on. I think I've found something useful," John continued. On the floor, Charlie had worked up into squawks that were shortly to become screams; just at that moment Molly appeared in the doorway. John went over to the refrigerator in search of baby food while Molly picked Charlie up and started to comfort her.

"Doherty had a wife and a ten year old daughter," John continued over the noise, handing the jar to Molly and then wandering out into the hall. "The wife committed suicide four months after he was incarcerated... and it happened on New Year's Eve, Sherlock. Or what he would have called Old Year's Night. I'm trying to find out where she's buried. Because..." He fumbled for a second. "Because if he's still grieving, I don't think he'd want to go too far away from her. We might be able to narrow down where he is."

"And the daughter?"

"Not a lot to go on there. There was a newspaper article about Cathy Doherty's brother Brian and his wife applying for custody of her, and being denied because of some prior convictions of his."

"What convictions?"

"Weapons and drugs. Anyway, it looks like the daughter went into the foster care system. I've only got media records here, so I don't even know what her name is. Might have disappeared... I couldn't find any record of her after her uncle was denied custody, but I guess that's the point of privacy laws."

"So there's Doherty's motive, John. Mycroft was the star witness for the prosecution at his trial, and he's not exactly a difficult man to remember. If Doherty's wife killed herself because her husband was in jail, he'll no doubt blame Mycroft for that... and for the girl disappearing into the care system. Don't you remember?"

"Remember..."

Sherlock paused again for a few seconds, then audibly swallowed. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't,' he said. "What... Moran said about you. He thought I'd killed his best friend, and... wanted to kill mine."

There was silence down the line for a few moments.

"There was something awfully odd about this from the beginning," Sherlock said quickly. "And that's the threat to slit Stephen's throat. Highly specific, and a messy and very impractical murder technique..." he trailed off thoughtfully for a second. "Lestrade's in Dartford this afternoon with Donovan. See if you can get onto Gregson, John, get him to let you access further records of what happened to Doherty's family. I think you'll find that the wife committed suicide by slitting her own throat."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that Doherty's trying to exact revenge on Mycroft, and deal with his own trauma by recreating it. This is good news, John. If we can predict Doherty's movements and behaviour, it gives us a chance." He took a breath. "I'll leave it with you. Mycroft and I are on our way to Dartford now to identify this body."

* * *

_ "Kiss Papi goodbye, Mycroft."_

_Mummy's tones indicated that this was more an order than a suggestion. Mycroft, barely able to see above the stiff white mattress, clasped his grubby fingers together and looked in trepidation at the cadaverous, blotchy old man lying wheezing on the hospital bed in front of him. No, he couldn't. He couldn't kiss Papi when he gurgled at every breath, when he fixed him with that sunken-eyed, predatory gaze, when he reeked of California Poppy and Dettol and rubbing alcohol._

_"Pippa," the old man croaked. "There are some sweeties..." He gestured weakly to the bedside drawer on his left. Mummy went to it and rummaged through it for a minute, then put a wrapped sweet in his bony hand. He held it out to the small boy still staring at him in wonder and fear._

_"Myc," he said. "Papi's got a sweetie for you..."_

_"Go on, Mycroft," Mummy said again, nudging him forward._

_Mycroft took a deep breath. He wanted that sweet... and he liked Papi. He didn't see him very often, but when he did, Papi called him "Myc" and sat him on his knee and gave him cakes and sweets and talked to him like he was a small child and not a very short adult. He understood things. _

_Papi's skeletal hand edged closer, with the purple wrapped sweet rustling between his fingers. Mycroft shrank back against his mother's legs._

_"Mycroft..." she admonished. "Stop being so ungrateful and go and kiss your grandfather. Now."_

_The old man smiled at him and beckoned him over, but Mycroft screamed. He had never before seen Papi without his false teeth in._

_And then he was running out into the corridor, little feet slipping and sliding along the polished floor, not stopping until he got to the closed double-doors at the far end. He threw himself against them, as if hoping to break them down; seconds later warm arms wrapped around him, and he burst into tears._

_"No, Mummy!" he wailed, struggling against her grip and pushing at the door with his sticky hands. "No kiss Papi!"_

_"All right, all right." Mummy's cool hands swiped his fringe out of his hot, tear-smudged face. "We're going home, and you're going straight to bed."_

_She'd picked him up then. Clinging to her like a baby monkey and burying his face in her shoulder, he heard her tell someone nearby, "he's tired and frightened. We'll try again tomorrow. He's only three."_

_Mycroft had sniffled miserably the whole way out of the hospital. It was only when Mummy was putting him into the car that he took his fingers out of his mouth._

_"Mummy," he hiccupped. "Sweet?"_

_"No, Mycroft. That was from Papi." She finished with his seatbelt and drew back. "Hands."_

_He put his hands up while she firmly shut the car door beside him._

~~oo~~oo~~oo~~

Papi had died the night after Mycroft had run screaming from him. There were no more sweeties, no more chances to kiss him, no more time to grow up and learn and understand and overcome his fears.

Mycroft had the mind of a scientist, but he had never considered becoming one. Because each time he stepped inside a medical laboratory or a hospital, he was for a second barely three years old and terrified of one of the only people who had ever shown him affection.

So while the morgue at tiny, homey-looking Livingstone Hospital smelled strongly of Dettol and rubbing alcohol to ordinary people, to Mycroft, it reeked of bitter death. Of course, on the surface of things it was about as pleasant as a morgue could possibly be; the place was clean and sparse and light, and the staff were professional, but that was neither here nor there, given the circumstances.

For Mycroft, the only real comfort from others was no comfort at all. Fortunately he was in good company for that, he reflected as he was shown into the viewing area, a dark little box behind a bright window. Through it, he could see a sheet-covered form lying on a trolley. No tell-tale bump where the head should be. Sherlock stood beside him, grim and silent, his hands behind his back. No lavish and dangerous sympathy from _him_, nor from the morgue technician who suddenly appeared through the connecting door and approached the body. Middle-aged man, bald, wore glasses that were too big for his face. Utterly businesslike. Not always a good thing, Mycroft reflected, but at the moment, highly preferable to that sweet-natured girl John was married to, who quite against her job description handed out sympathetic hugs to most of the families she dealt with.

The Watsons were going to be insufferable about this, with kind words and offers of help and support. Kind words couldn't bring anyone back to life again, and support... what was support? Quite useless. The fumbling of awkward people to change a situation that couldn't be changed.

"Let me know when you're ready," the technician said over his shoulder, his thick fingers playing with the edges of the sheet. "I need to remind you that, given the injuries, this may be upsetting." He sounded as if he were explaining some sort of scientific principle. "Turn away if you have to, and say so if you feel faint or nauseated or would like to take a minute."

Beside him, Sherlock planted his feet slightly apart and exhaled, but said nothing.

"I'm ready," Mycroft heard himself say.

"Are-"

"Show me."

Like a vile striptease, the technician lifted the sheet from the corpse's blotched, purple feet first, lifting it slowly upwards until the final reveal.

Mycroft's sharp gaze darted several times over the mangled, discoloured human being on the trolley, with its gaping neck wound, exposed vertebrae stump, and – somehow the most difficult thing – the empty headrest beyond.

"No," he said. "No, it's not him."


	9. No Coincidence

There was a moment where all sound and movement seemed hushed like a blown-out candle; the second of silence between the fall of a bomb and the outbreak of chaos.

Then Mycroft drew a deep breath. "Definitely not him," he repeated in stronger tones. "Wrong build entirely. The shoulders are too narrow, and the sternum is sitting too low." He gestured casually with one hand. "Moreover, this man has several blemishes Stephen lacks, which he couldn't have acquired in the time he's been in the hands of his abductors."

Sherlock peered impassively through the glass at the mangled figure. "Well, if it's not Stephen," he said slowly, "then the question becomes: who is it? This area of the world isn't known for frequent mutilation killings. Rather a coincidence."

"Not a coincidence," Mycroft responded. "And you know it." He had never had much time for Sherlock's self-professed love of coincidences. That such things inarguably did sometimes happen interfered with his carefully-wrought, ordered view of the world. "This man was killed and dumped specifically so that he would be found in precisely the right time and place."

"Diverting time and resources away from finding Stephen."

Mycroft looked wry. "Yes," he said. "Though I suspect he has a more personal reason than that."

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds, looking again at the corpse on the viewing trolley. This was unexpected. Paul Doherty may have been an amateur at kidnapping people, but he was determined enough in this venture to commit a murder for, apparently, no other reason but to pretend the corpse was Stephen's. Sherlock had known just one other man cold enough to do that: James Moriarty.

"I think," he said, "we need to get those ears DNA tested."

"No point," Mycroft said tersely, resting on his heels. "Quite aside from the time it would take to get a result – months, I imagine – DNA testing is only effective if one has DNA to match it with."

"And Stephen's records aren't on file?"

Mycroft shook his head briefly. "I made it clear to the relevant authorities many years ago that so far as science is concerned, the people in my employ do not exist. DNA records tend to complicate matters."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. Over the past thirteen years, Mycroft had had five "personal assistants", and all of their roles had varied according to their strengths and weaknesses. William had been a thug with a degree and a nice suit, hired during a period where Mycroft was making enemies and hadn't perfected the art of dealing with them yet. Then Alistair, who was more of a gentleman and knew how to negotiate a sharp deal – and exact the consequences if one reneged on that deal. After that it was Pamela, a fortyish spinster. She was a mathematical and organisational genius who kept all of Mycroft's affairs in order, and who had resigned after eight months to marry Lord Townsend. Then Christina Tate, the girl he called "Anthea"; largely useless, but presented well to others and had inner reserves of strength, resolve and ingenuity that had helped Mycroft out of more than one tight spot, both politically and personally.

And finally, Stephen - dull, pleasant Stephen James Hassell. No DNA on file, because his predecessors had taken so readily to the morally grey part of Mycroft's career. No DNA, even though the man had probably never stolen so much as a pencil from Mycroft's desk and had no ability or inclination to hurt anyone.

"No living relatives, I suppose."

"None, lamentably." Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"There never are. Too easy."

"There's a sister, I think, but she lives in Vancouver and we don't have time to track her down for DNA testing. We go with the assumption that the ears are Stephen's. But this is not. He planted this."

"You keep saying "he"," Sherlock remarked carefully. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mycroft turn to him questioningly, but he kept his gaze ahead at nothing in particular. Putting forward suggestions and ideas to Mycroft had always been a somewhat dangerous practice. Once Mycroft agreed with something, it almost invariably became an empirical fact.

And now Mycroft was waiting for this new information to process. Sherlock took a rare few moments to consider how best to express it.

"I'm sure Brian Merchant and Gary Doherty are assisting him," he finally said.

"No doubt," Mycroft conceded, as if the fact that he had more than one adversary had never fully occurred to him before now. "But it's personal to Paul."

"I think it may be personal to Brian and Gary too. You neglected to mention what happened to Cathy Doherty."

"I have no idea what you're referring to," Mycroft said brittly. "Once Doherty was incarcerated, I had better things to do with my time and energy than follow the minutiae of his life."

"She committed suicide, Mycroft. Four months after Doherty was put away."

Mycroft looked at him in silence for a few seconds. At first there was nothing but a dull, repressed kind of shock in his gaze; then, for a second, a chilly sort of reproach. It was as if he were saying, _why would you tell me that? I didn't want to know that._

Abruptly, he turned back to the body. "Well," he said in his usual clipped manner. "I suppose we've solved the mystery as to why Paul Doherty is so determined to make me suffer."

* * *

John had always had the impression that Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson didn't like him. But there was no call to take that personally, because Gregson didn't really seem to like anybody. The two men had only spoken a handful of times in the years John had worked with Sherlock, and John had never had the pleasure of working directly with him. But Gregson's lanky, scowling entity was regularly seen stalking the hallways and vestibules of the office like an ill-tempered ghost.

He was particularly brusque with John when he arrived at New Scotland Yard just after twelve with Charlie, who was nestled fast asleep in her pink-lined wicker carry basket. Gregson eyed her with deep misgivings, but said nothing.

"I know," John said apologetically, placing the basket gently on the floor. "I don't usually take this one everywhere, but my wife's at work at the moment..." Molly was, or last he'd heard from her forty minutes before, spending her so-called holiday knee-deep in research into what the wounds from various knives looked like under magnification. "But she won't be any trouble, promise."

Gregson gave Charlie another very dubious glance; John could practically see him reflecting that nobody _else _in the buildingwas allowed to take their children to 'work.' He suddenly remembered that Gregson had four kids of his own, though he was sure they were much older than Charlie. He couldn't quite imagine Gregson's office festooned with colourful crayon drawings of ambiguous spindle-legged creatures, lovingly crafted at nursery school and clumsily addressed "to daddy".

The first time he'd been in Lestrade's office he'd seen one solitary indication that the man had kin, beyond the gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand. It was a small birthday card, furtively perched on the desk between his landline handset and a pale ring on the surface of the desk that indicated this was where he put his mug of coffee. Generic card, bought from a Sainsbury's checkout or some other thoughtless place. In it was written, "To Dad, from Hayley and Matthew." The kids' names were written in different handwriting, and the card had then been nearly five months old. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.

Gregson was different; and sadly, it was Gregson who was scowling at him, not Lestrade. "How can I help you, Dr. Watson?" he asked, politely but tersely.

John glanced back down at Charlie again. _An hour, Charlotte Mary Watson. Please give me an hour, and I promise I won't be playing with the gun when your first date comes to pick you up. _

"Inspector Lestrade said you could help me," he said, giving his attention back to Gregson. "With records into the indictment and trial of Paul Doherty in 2002."

"Did he now?"

That was not, in fact, what Lestrade had said; it was what _Sherlock_ had said. But John nodded. If there was anything useful he'd learned from the great Sherlock Holmes, it was to never underestimate the value of a well-placed bluff. _Get someone to believe they're following orders, and they'll do just about anything for you._

Gregson was looking at him impassively, but John did not back down. After a few seconds, the DI let out a breath. "Just a second," he muttered.

He pulled out his mobile phone and put it to his ear; for a few seconds he paused, then opened with, "Lestrade, do I owe you a favour I've forgotten about? 'Cause I've got John Watson here, and he seems to think you said I could show him records of Paul Doherty's indictment..."

John tensed, but only for a moment. Lestrade probably had little to no idea of what was going on, but he adapted quickly, and he'd probably back him over Gregson.

He glanced down at Charlie again as Gregson, phone still at one ear, stalked away to his office and shut the door behind him.

* * *

"Number's busy," Sherlock muttered, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and shutting the car door with the other. "I don't leave messages, and he doesn't read them. I'll call back." He shoved the phone in the console and jammed the keys in the ignition, starting the engine with a lot more vim than was strictly necessary. Beside him, Mycroft fidgeted for his seatbelt. Sherlock knew he absolutely hated being his passenger, but both John and the Kent paramedics had been more than adamant on that point: absolutely no driving for forty-eight hours at least.

"Important business, is it?" he hissed impatiently.

"He's on the case, Mycroft. Give him five minutes. Lestrade doesn't really have anything to talk about for longer than that."

As he checked the flow of traffic to merge, Sherlock's phone blooped out a text alert; regardless of the fact that he was preoccupied, he grabbed at it and checked the incoming text. A brand new number, for a brand new prepaid phone he'd purchased just that day.

_arrived norich give me til 6 2 have ur man dolan_

Sherlock blinked and put the phone back in the console, then merged onto the road without speaking. Obviously Dolan's determination to wreak havoc with the law and vengeance on anyone who crossed him had precluded his learning basic English, or at least, precluded his using it in a text.

"London?" he enquired.

Mycroft grunted in assent. He was staring absently out the window, though there wasn't much to look at. The sky was a dull, iron grey; they were just then negotiating a roundabout as they pursued the arterial road. Above, an overpass pedestrian bridge reached over them like a great skeletal arm. He leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked at length. Mycroft half-opened his eyes.

"I'm imagining myself standing in a hospital room," he said slowly.

"Stephen's."

"Yes."

"Hearing from a doctor that he'll recover completely."

"Yes."

Sherlock paused, unable to explain that what had kept him going in the weeks John had clung to life after being shot was an image: John unleashing a torrent of abuse worthy of a dress sergeant on him, and then punching him for good measure. It had never happened, but the hope that John might one day be well enough to do it was what had mattered.

"And Doherty?" he ventured.

"I'm imagining that _fucking_ _bastard_ on a morgue slab, minus his head," Mycroft snarled. "And then I'm imagining myself _spitting_ on the – "

He cut himself off as abruptly as a switched off radio, and swiped at his mouth as if to clean it.

"The what?" Sherlock nearly smiled. "Go on, Mycroft, say it. You've already said "fuck", and Mummy's not here to be shocked."

Mycroft pursed his lips up into a prim, intractable line of British propriety. "I'd rather not."

"Yes, you would."

Mycroft had never said the dreaded _really terrible swear word _before, though plenty of the boys he'd bunked with at school had used it often – usually in its strictly anatomical sense, once their contraband MAD magazines had been replaced with what some politely called _smut. _He'd once written it on a desk because a boy named Clarence Barfield had paid him ten pounds to do it, but all the money in England wouldn't have convinced Mycroft to actually _say _it. After all, in an ill-judged moment of tween rebellion, he'd once said "fuck" in front of Mummy. She'd slapped him so hard his neck had clicked. The really terrible swear word would probably get him killed. The possibility of that outcome still bothered him, even though Mummy had been in her grave for twenty years.

"I am _waiting_," Sherlock said.

"He's a..." Mycroft hesitated, and then out it tumbled: the _really terrible swear word._

Twenty minutes of silence followed; after goading him into something he felt genuinely ashamed of, even Sherlock knew better than to engage Mycroft in any further conversation. The next time he spoke was when his phone rang; he muttered politely for Mycroft to pass it to him, and Mycroft did so without any accompanying bitching about the dangers of distracted driving. Sherlock, glancing between the phone and the road, was able to note the caller ID before answering.

"John. News?"

"Yeah." John's voice sounded slightly warped, as if he were a long distance away; Sherlock glanced at the horizon, devoid of reception towers, and hoped they were driving out of and not into a drop zone. "Listen, I've been able to grab some records from the police databases, but I don't know how much use they're going to be. Doherty's daughter's name was Eliza Catherine, and I doubt she'd have changed it when she was adopted, 'cause she was eleven at the time."

"She probably changed her surname, however, especially if she was feeling ambivalent about her father. And either way, she could be married by now and have a totally unrelated surname."

"Yeah, I know it doesn't help much, but it's a start. She was put into foster care in January of 2003 and was placed for adoption in July of 2004."

"And who adopted her?"

"No idea in the world. I've just been on the phone to Norwich County Council, but they won't give me any information without a court order." There was a sort of blunted shuffling noise in the background of the call. "Or they might play nicely after a call from a particularly influential man named Holmes."

"Mycroft couldn't negotiate worth a damn right now, John." Sherlock disregarded the look of controlled outrage that passed over Mycroft's face. He held his hand out, as if to take up both the phone and the challenge; Sherlock took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at him and firmly shake his head.

"Yeah," John continued. "I didn't mean him, though."

Sherlock calmly ignored a second insistent 'give me the phone' gesture from Mycroft. "Fine," he said. "Text me the number and I'll be on it as soon as possible. What about the wife?"

"No record of suicide method that I can find... they don't stick things like that in the papers, and it wasn't a Yard issue. The autopsy wasn't done at Barts, but Molly's on it."

"Excellent..." Sherlock trailed off. "Is that Charlotte?" he demanded, addressing the gurgling in the background of John's call.

"Uh, yeah." John suddenly sounded distracted as the gurgling escalated into a thin sort of whining noise. "Just woke up, and probably wondering where she is."

"And where exactly is that?"

"Right now? Gregson's office. I've got to go, Sherlock. I'll keep in touch."

Sherlock's mouth twitched despite himself; he hung up the phone and put it back in the console without a further word.

"You idiot," Mycroft growled.

"Shut up."

"I'm going to call John back."

"Good for you. He won't play – he's already convinced you're not in a fit state to parley with a trio of kidnappers. Pass me my phone."

The phone had just bleeped out a text alert; sighing, Mycroft retrieved it and put it in Sherlock's hand. He curled his fingers around it, sliding his thumb across to reveal the new text. Eric Dolan had only been out of prison for a few hours, but he'd been as good as his word.

_muchel frend reckons pauls missus burried eccles on sea. St johns church. will find out let u know dolan_

* * *

_**A/N-**__ Much thanks to Darkin520 and Ersatz Einstein for their beta help!_


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